


The Miller's Son

by sophie_448



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Sibling Incest, rumpelstiltskin - Freeform, shameless abuse of fairy tales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-10
Updated: 2007-07-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 18:42:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13933002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophie_448/pseuds/sophie_448
Summary: The Winchesters do Rumpelstiltskin.  Things are not exactly what they seem.





	The Miller's Son

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the _awesome_ [](https://shadowc44.livejournal.com/profile)[shadowc44](https://shadowc44.livejournal.com/) who finished the last of it even though she was sick. Here's your virtual chicken soup, dear!
> 
> Despite what this fic might seem to indicate, I actually don't hate Jess.

 

_Once upon a time . . ._

Sam couldn’t help thinking that perhaps their monarch could find better uses for her time than listening to idle rumors spread by peasants. He also thought his father should really learn when to keep his mouth shut. John Miller had an unfortunate tendency to make outrageous boasts, especially when he’d had a few too many glasses of whiskey at the Dog and Crow Tavern.

The locals in the farming community of Lawrence knew to just ignore the miller when he started in on some incredible story. They were tolerant of this habit. After all, he wasn’t a mean drunk like some other men and he was the only miller in town. Unfortunately, on the night that John had told an elaborate tale about how his son could spin straw into gold, one of the queen’s toadies had been passing through. Doubtless hoping to curry favor with the reputedly gold-obsessed queen, he had carried the story back to the palace.

That was how Samuel Miller found himself standing in the opulent throne room, facing Queen Jessica. The old king and queen, Jessica’s parents had been taken by a fever the previous year, when the princess was barely of age. The rumors whispered furtively throughout the kingdom said that the young queen was spoiled and far more concerned with her comfort than the good of the kingdom. She was quickly emptying the royal coffers to finance lavish palace construction projects while famine threatened the kingdom, which explained why she might be interested in a miraculous ability to create gold from worthless straw.

Unfortunately, Sam possessed no such skill. He was a talented spinner, true, and refused to hang his head in shame when someone called it “woman’s work.” His mother had died in childbirth and his father had never had the heart to remarry. It had been just the two of them his whole life. His father worked long, hard days in the mill and someone had to take care of the other household chores. He had started spinning on his mother’s wheel when he was seven years old. He found that the delicate work calmed him and gave him a sense of accomplishment that few other tasks could match.

However, no matter how soft and even his yarn, it did not undergo any sort of magical transformation into precious metal. Although he towered over most men, Sam felt quite small under the queen’s intense gaze. “So,” she said imperiously, “I understand you can spin straw into gold.”

He hung his head, peering at her through his overlong bangs. “No, Your Majesty, I can’t. I’m sorry you went to all the trouble to bring me here, but it’s just my father. Sometimes he says things he shouldn’t.”

Jessica pursed her lips. “Now, I’m sure that’s not the case. Because I’m sure you and your father both realize that lying is an offense punishable by life imprisonment. So you’re going to be a good boy and spin straw into gold, aren’t you?”

Sam considered the dangerous glint in the queen’s eyes. It was obvious she wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep over throwing a miller into the dungeon to rot, even though it might mean financial ruin for his village. He didn’t seem to have much choice. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Her whole demeanor changed instantly. She smiled delightedly and clapped her hands like a small child. “Excellent! I have a whole roomful of straw ready for you to spin into gold by dawn tomorrow.” She paid no mind to the fact that all the color had drained from Sam’s face as she summoned two guards to escort him out of the throne room. As he reached the door, she added casually, “Oh, and should you fail, I’ll have you executed.”

Sam felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. He only barely managed to inhale enough air to protest, “But it may take longer than one night.” He felt the guards hands tighten around his arms like iron bars, dragging him through the door as her response floated after him.

“I have faith in you.”

Entirely too short a time later, a heavy wood and iron door was clanging shut behind Sam and he heard a bolt sliding into place. He considered screaming at the guards to be let out, but quickly discarded that as useless. His heart sank as he surveyed his surroundings. He was in a huge stone room in a wing of the palace that was a considerable walk from the throne room. It had high, vaulted ceilings and was filled entirely with straw except for a small spot that was cleared in the middle for a spinning wheel and small stool.

He approached the wheel and gave it a few experimental turns. Even without any wool or flax to spin through it he could tell it was of much finer quality than his mother’s wheel. He picked up some of the straw and looked at it dubiously. He had never tried to spin anything so brittle, even without the added challenge of making it magically turn into gold. Sighing, he sat on the stool and placed his feet on the treadle. He started the wheel spinning and tried feeding some straw into it. It crumbled into dust just like he’d expected.

He stopped the wheel and buried his head in his hands. He was going to die tomorrow and his father was probably going to be imprisoned all for some stupid story that no one with half a brain should have believed anyway. It was just too much for Sam and as much as he tried, he couldn’t stop the tears that ran down his face or the shuddering sobs that shook his shoulders.

He didn’t know how long he would have cried if left to his own devices, all night probably, but he’d barely gotten started when a gruff voice interrupted him. “Why are you crying, kid?”

Sam gasped in shock, standing up so quickly that he knocked the stool over and sent it clattering a couple of feet along the stone floor. He backed up against the nearest pile of straw. Across from him, at the other side of the small area of clear floor space, was the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. He stood a few inches shorter than Sam and looked to be a few years older. His hair was short and sandy blond-brown. His eyes were the most brilliant green Sam had ever seen and his lips—

 

Sam shook his head. Surely there were more pressing matters to deal with than the man’s relative attractiveness. “Who are you? How’d you get in here? I wasn’t crying!” he fired off at the man.

“Whoa, whoa, easy there, Sparky!” The man put out a placating hand. “You were crying, ‘cause I heard you and came to see what was the matter. So what’s up?”

Sam noticed how he completely avoided the questions he’d asked. He sighed. It didn’t seem like this man was here to do him harm and even if he was, it couldn’t be any worse than what the queen had promised him in a few hours time. He gestured to the mountains of straw all around them. “I have to spin this into gold by morning,” he said.

The man’s eyes widened. “Can you do that?”

“No, it’s just something stupid my dad said when he was drunk and somehow the queen heard about it and now she’s going to have me executed if I don’t do it and probably throw my father in prison for life!” Sam’s voice had been rising steadily as he spoke and now he stopped abruptly, his chest heaving.

The man’s expression softened with concern and sympathy. “That’s rough, Sammy,” he said, reaching out a hand as though to place it on Sam’s shoulder. Sam moved away abruptly, on his guard again.

“It’s Sam,” he answered reflexively, then stopped. “How’d you know my name?” he demanded. The man flicked his eyes to the ceiling then back to Sam.

“Magical powers,” he deadpanned, “Now do you want help with this or not?”

“Help with what?”

Another eye roll. “Spinning the straw into gold, of course.”

“You can do that?”

“Yeah, but I don’t work for free. What’ll you give me if I do?”

Sam floundered. He was just a miller’s son. He didn’t have anything of value. Certainly nothing that would approach the worth of a roomful of gold. But this was the only chance he was likely to get. He reached around to the back of his neck and unhooked the clasp there. He pulled out a silver chain with an angel pendant on it and held it out to the man. “This is all I have. It was my mother’s.”

The man reached out tentatively for it and Sam let it drop into his palm. He examined it for a moment, then grabbed Sam’s hand and shook it firmly. “Deal!” he declared.

Sam watched him spin for hours as the coarse straw somehow turned into shining skeins of gold before his eyes. The man was mostly focused on his work, but every so often his eyes would slide over to where Sam was leaning against the wall. There was a look in his eyes that Sam didn’t understand; familiarity and worry and heat and other things he couldn’t put a name to, none of which seemed to make any sense at all. He caught his thoughts and smiled wryly. As if any of this made sense. Spinning straw into gold? Nothing should surprise him now, certainly not a weird look from the man doing the spinning.

As dawn broke, shining in through the tiny windows set high in the stone wall, the man removed the last skein from the bobbin and set it beside the others. Just then Sam heard the bolt being thrown and looked around at the door. He cast a glance over his shoulder, meaning to thank the man, but he had vanished as quickly and mysteriously as he had appeared.

The door opened and the queen entered, accompanied by a few courtiers. When she saw the gleaming piles of golden thread she smiled delightedly, bouncing on her toes and doing the hand clapping thing again. “Oh, marvelous! I knew you could do it!” she exclaimed. She turned to the courtiers and instructed them to take Sam and treat him like a prince. For the rest of the day he was bathed and pampered and fussed over and fed delicacies. When night came, though, the guards returned and escorted him to a room even larger than the first, filled to the top with straw. “Spin,” one of them ordered succinctly.

Once again, the door clanged shut behind him. Sam looked around hopelessly. He was pretty sure that lightning wouldn’t strike twice, so he just sat down and cried, resigned to the fate that awaited him in eight short hours.

“You’re crying again.”

Sam looked up, surprised, but not as surprised as the first time. “I didn’t think you’d come more than once,” he said, swiping his sleeve across his eyes.

The man surveyed the mountains of straw. “Man, this is even more than the last time!”

Sam sort of half shrugged, helplessly. “I don’t have anything else to give you.”

The man shot him that look again, the same one he had all the night before. Then he scratched his head in a way Sam couldn’t help but think was adorable—and familiar?—before speaking again.

“Tell you what, Sammy,” he said, a dark glint entering his eyes, “How about you give me a kiss and we call it even?”

A jolt of something wicked, hot, and sweet shot through Sam and he swallowed hard. “Okay,” he said, his voice a little breathy with nerves.

The man stalked towards him, his movements sinuous and the devil’s own smirk on his face. He wound a hand up to tangle in the curly hair at the base of Sam’s skull, gently pulling his head down. Green eyes met hazel for a charged moment before their lips fused together and all Sam’s coherent thoughts scattered in white hot fragments.

He had never felt anything like those lips on his, and yet the sensation was oddly familiar. The man’s tongue darted out, licking at Sam’s lips, begging entrance. He complied readily, leaning into to deepen the contact. Seemingly of their own volition, his arms came up and circled the shorter man’s shoulders, pressing them close together. Hips shifted and suddenly he felt the man’s hardness and felt himself respond.

This was volatile and dangerous and incendiary and Sam had never felt safer. Something in his head was saying _Home_ over and over. He made a small whimpering sound in the back of the throat and clutched the man even tighter to him.

The man, however, broke the kiss abruptly, bringing Sam back to harsh reality. He instinctively released the man, who stumbled back a couple of steps, breathing hard and staring at Sam.

“Sammy?” he asked, his entire demeanor changed. The cocky smirk and easy control were gone, replaced by a pleading tone and searching eyes. Sam returned the stare, bewildered. There was an insistent ache in his chest demanding that he give this man whatever would make that look go away, but he didn’t know what he was looking for.

“Who _are_ you?” he asked, feeling lost.

The man just shook his head, his façade, for now Sam realized what it was, snapping back into place like a theatrical mask. He grinned as though he hadn’t a care in the world and shrugged. “Better get going if I’m going to finish this by morning.”

Again he spun and again Sam watched, but this time he hardly saw the worthless straw turning into shimmering gold. He just kept seeing intense green eyes too close for comfort and feeling the slide of lips and tongues. Most of all, though, he couldn’t get that moment when the kiss broke out of his head. The man had looked at him like he was supposed to know something, but Sam had no idea what that could be.

The hours passed in brooding silence until, just as the first rays of dawn appeared, the man finished the last skein of gold and vanished. Sam was almost grateful that he had only a moment to feel the aching emptiness of the room before the queen and her cronies appeared.

Just like the day before, Sam was whisked off and treated like royalty all day, so he was unsurprised that when sundown came he was led to an even larger room filled, once again, with straw. He didn’t cry, but the man appeared anyway, letting out a whistle when he saw the amount of straw in the room.

“I still don’t have anything to give you,” Sam said, but this time his voice held a note of hope. Perhaps the man would ask for another kiss, or possibly more? He was suddenly pinned by those intense green eyes.

“I think we need to make a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

The man tried to pace, but the clear area of the room was too small, so he settled for rocking restlessly from one foot to the other. He was silent for a few moments, then sighed heavily. “You liked that kiss last night, right?”

Sam flushed, embarrassed, but nodded.

There was another long silence, then the man started speaking quickly. “Okay, so tomorrow morning you have to tell the queen that the magic only works three times, so she’d better be happy with her piles of gold. Unless she’s completely psychotic, she’ll let you go. It’s not like you haven’t given her enough free money. So then, um,” he stuttered to a stop for a moment, but took a deep breath and continued, “Then will you come and be with me? Forever?”

Sam blinked, stunned. After a moment where it seemed that his entire brain had gone blank, he felt a stupid grin fighting its way to his lips. He forced it down sternly. He didn’t even know this man, didn’t even know his name. There was no reason why this proposition should sound like coming home. It should be a life sentence. Despite the stern mental lecture he was giving himself, the grin was still trying to get out. It managed to lift one corner of his mouth despite his best efforts. But he’d better make sure he was clear on what exactly this deal entailed.

“Be with you how?”

He was rewarded with a pained expression. “Oh come on, Sam. Do I really need to spell it out?”

“Um, yes. Forever is an awfully long time.”

“Well, it’ll be a hell of a lot shorter for you if this straw doesn’t turn into gold by morning.”

Sam had to admit he had a point. Still, he wanted to make sure he understood.

“Be with you how?” he repeated.

The man sighed. “Fine, fine, you win. Be with me like,” he paused, “Like with the kiss. And . . . other things.”

“So I’d be your kept boy?”

“What? No!” The man looked horrified. “No. More like,” a trapped look entered his eyes, “my husband? Only, you know, not.”

The huge, stupid grin bowled over Sam’s defenses and spread across his lips before he could stop it. “Yeah, all right,” he said, trying for casual, but falling somewhere closer to giddy. He would have felt foolish except that an answering smile had appeared on the man’s lips.

“Shake on it?”

“How about seal it with a kiss?” Sam countered, wondering where that bit of boldness had come from. The man grinned and complied. Suddenly ridiculous things like honey and sunlight were singing through Sam’s brain as he responded eagerly.

When the kiss ended, Sam felt dazed. He sat gingerly on the floor and watched as the man began to spin again. Even the long, weary hours of sitting and watching the spinning couldn’t quell the happy buzzing traveling from his heart to his brain and all along his nerve endings. He could think of no logical reason this should make him even slightly happy. A mysterious man who could appear and disappear at will, not to mention spin straw into gold, was binding Sam to him for life. That should be terrifying, but it wasn’t. All Sam felt was safe and protected and blindingly happy.

He was so happy, in fact, that he forgot something important until the sky was turning gray with the approaching dawn. “Hey wait,” he said as though they’d been having a conversation, even though no words had passed between them for hours, “What’s your name?”

The green eyes that met his held a curious mixture of amusement and pain that Sam couldn’t understand. The man just calmly finished off the last of the spinning and stood up. “Don’t forget,” he admonished softly.

As if Sam could.

“Wait!” Sam protested again. The man raised a warning finger to his lips and then he was gone. Sam probably would have said some very choice phrases very loudly, but he heard the bolt being thrown. He took a deep breath and faced the door. He would have to speak carefully. The queen wasn’t going to be happy about being told he could no longer spin for her.

She wasn’t. Queen Jessica’s beautiful face contorted with ugly fury when he explained that the magic only worked three times and that he could never spin for her again. She screamed for the guards to drag him off to the gallows, but her advisors stepped in and began speaking low and quickly. Sam caught only snatches of the conversation, but it was enough for him to get an idea of what they were saying.

“. . . Reached the city and nearby towns . . . public outrage . . .”

So it turned out that Sam owed his life to gossiping courtiers who had obviously spread the story of his miraculous talent all over the kingdom. The queen went into private counsel to deliberate while Sam waited impatiently. The sooner she let him go, the sooner he could make good on that promise. He wasn’t worried that he had no idea how to find the man. Surely he would find Sam. After all, he could spin straw into gold.

The bottom dropped out of all Sam’s plans when the queen returned. In return for his extraordinary service to the kingdom, they would be married and he would be prince consort. As she spoke, she gave his tall form a frankly appraising look and it was clear she liked what she saw. No time was wasted on romantic charades. Sam was whisked out of the throne room and straight to the royal tailor to be measured for his wedding suit.

The next twenty-four hours passed in a blur of fittings, etiquette briefings, and other official meetings. No one bothered to ask him whether he wanted to be prince consort or marry the queen. What miller’s son wouldn’t?

Sam could barely take in the whirl of activity through the haze of his misery. He kept seeing green eyes incongruously laced with pain, kept hearing a deep voice saying “don’t forget.” He wanted to run out of the palace doors and never look back, but he was acutely conscious that his situation was tenuous at best. A mere day ago his future wife had been screaming for his blood.

That was how Sam found himself standing at the front of the cathedral-like palace chapel, decked out in velvet and silk decorated with pure gold thread that he had supposedly spun from straw himself. The doors at the back of the chapel opened and there was the queen. Her wedding gown was the most exquisite creation and she truly was beautiful. All Sam felt when he looked at her was cold, gnawing fear and the strong desire to run in the opposite direction.

She had barely stepped into the aisle when Sam’s mysterious spinner appeared halfway between bride and groom.

“Stop,” he said. He spoke loud and clear, but wasn’t shouting by any means. Despite that, somehow his voice seemed to carry the force of a thunder clap. The music and all extraneous sounds ceased immediately. “Stop,” he said again, “This marriage is not valid. The boy belongs to me.”

Sam couldn’t have stopped the relieved, joyful grin from breaking across his face for anything in the world. Green eyes slanted briefly in his direction and full lips offered a comforting smirk. Jessica, though, didn’t spare him a glance.

“What do you mean he belongs to you? We are about to be married!” Her eyes flashed dangerously and Sam was surprised she didn’t stomp her foot.

“Sam and I had a deal. He promised himself to me.”

“And what did you do for him?”

“That’s between me and Sam.”

“This is ridiculous. Get out of my way so that we can get on with our wedding.” Jessica had reached the middle of the aisle and tried to shove past the man. He stopped her easily.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that. It’s a binding magical contract.”

The queen shook her head at the approaching guards and swatted the man’s hand away the way someone else would shoo a fly. “What would it take to change the terms of that contract?” she asked, eyes sharpening shrewdly.

Sam didn’t think for a moment she cared that much about marrying him, but now they had a considerable audience so she couldn’t very well just let the man take him.

The spinner tapped his chin thoughtfully. After a moment he smiled. “Tell you what,” he announced expansively, “Since I’m such a charitable soul, I’ll give you an out. Sam has three days to guess my name. If he figures it out, you two lovebirds—“ his lips twisted ironically, “—can tie the knot and live happily ever after. On the other hand, if he can’t guess then he comes with me.” He spread his hands, palms open. “Sound fair?”

The queen nodded imperiously. “Very well. Return tonight and my future prince consort can begin this guessing game.”

Sam prayed to any deity that might be listening that he wouldn’t be able to guess.

In the hours until evening, the queen had everyone in the palace make a list of every name they could think of. When the man appeared in the throne room at dusk, Sam read the lists off rapid fire, suspecting he was repeating himself rather a lot. To his relief, the man just kept shaking his head. When they’d exhausted the lists, the man moved to depart. “Better think a bit harder, Sammy,” he admonished, and there was a serious note there that confused Sam. Surely the man didn’t want him to guess correctly or he would never have asked for the deal in the first place. Would he?

The next day, the entire staff, all the courtiers, and anyone else who happened to be in the vicinity of the palace was set to scouring the books in the massive royal library, searching for names. That night Sam read off those lists, anxiously watching the man’s face for any sign that he was had a correct syllable so that he could attempt to avert disaster. None of those names were correct, though. The queen’s countenance darkened while Sam breathed a secret sigh of relief. Only one more night and then hopefully he would be free.

The next morning, disaster struck. One of the queen’s servants came barreling into the throne room, barely managing to scrape a bow he was so eager to deliver his news. “I found the name,” he crowed, “I was walking through the woods and he was dancing around singing it at the top of his lungs!”

Jessica did that clapping thing that was swiftly growing from annoying habit to justification for murder in Sam’s mind. “Excellent! Tell us!”

“Dean Winchester!”

Something flashed behind Sam’s eyes. Images and sounds flickered at the edge of his brain insistently, but they were like an image caught in the corner of the eye. When he tried to focus on them they slipped away like the memory of a dream. He realized the queen was speaking to him.

“What?”

She pursed her lips in annoyance. “I _said_ —isn’t this wonderful, _darling_?” Her eyes flashed a warning.

Sam forced a smile to his lips. “Yeah, wonderful,” he echoed weakly, feeling hope draining out of him.

A few hours later, the man appeared in the throne room for the last time. Jessica smiled savagely. “We’ve got you now, little man,” she said, “You should be more careful about what you say. Go on, Sam. Tell him his name.”

The spinner and the queen both turned to Sam. Sam expected to see defeat in the man’s eyes, but that wasn’t the expression they held at all. They were . . . triumphant. Sam frowned. He didn’t understand what was going on. The man should be angry that he had lost the game, but he seemed glad. Perhaps he regretted binding Sam to him in the first place. Sam tried to ignore the stab of pain that thought caused him.

“Well?” Jessica’s voice brought him back the present. They were waiting for him to say it, but he couldn’t seem to force the words past his lips; didn’t even want to try.

“I’m sorry. I can’t,” he said instead.

“What?” Jessica and the man spoke simultaneously, sounding equally angry. Sam squared his jaw and took a deep breath.

“I can’t do it. I made a promise and I intend to keep it.” He stared hard at the man, trying to convey all his confused emotions with just a look. The pain in the green eyes that met his took his breath away. More than ever before he was overcome with the feeling that something was going on that he didn’t or couldn’t understand.

“Just say it, Sammy,” he almost whispered. Sam shook his head.

“I can’t. I don’t love her. I love you.” His words stunned him. He barely knew this mysterious man. He couldn’t possibly love him. Couldn’t possibly, but did nonetheless. The spinner swallowed hard.

“You don’t know how much I’ve wanted to hear you say that, Sam, but you have to say my name. Please.”

“Why? Don’t you want me?”

“Is that what I have to say? All right, fine. I don’t want you. Marry Jessica. Marry that girl and be happy, Sammy.”

Sam shook his head again, his vision growing blurry with unshed tears. But there didn’t seem to be anything he could do. The man didn’t want him. His protector who had saved his life three times didn’t want him.  
  
“All right,” he rasped around the lump in his throat. He swallowed, and spoke with a bit more strength. “All right. Your name is—“ he paused, sending one last pleading glance to those green eyes. He saw only determined coldness. “Your name is Dean Winchester.”

The world turned upside down. _Dean Winchester._ The name echoed over and over like church bells and screaming and singing. Suddenly it was accompanied by new knowledge. Dean Winchester. Brother. Protector. Friend. Lover. No, not new. Memories.

Sam Winchester’s life came flooding back into his mind so fast it made him dizzy. Or possibly he was dizzy because he was tied up and suspended upside down from the ceiling. The throne room faded to a distant memory as his real surroundings came into sharp focus. Dean was similarly suspended beside him and was just coming around.

Although the room was upside down, Sam recognized it. It was the main room of an abandoned house somewhere in central Pennsylvania. They’d come to investigate a house the locals swore was haunted. Sam remembered entering the house, flashlights and shotguns in hand. Then the deafening rattling that had the townsfolk spooked started up. Things got hazy after that and the next thing he remembered was being the dewy eyed son of a miller in fairytale land.

In front of them, a short, grotesque creature was dancing about and shrieking in outrage. It didn’t last long before it spun around and vanished in a puff of smoke. Of course, it didn’t bother to untie them first. Damned inconsiderate, really.

“Dean, you all right?”

His brother groaned in reply. “If you call having my brain violated ‘all right.’ I thought you said this thing was just your standard issue ‘bump in the night’ creepy crawly.”

Sam bit his lip. It looked like his research had been embarrassingly inaccurate on this one. “Sorry. I guess I was wrong.”

“No shit.”

Sam would have loved to continue the recriminations, but the blood was pooling in his brain with alarming rapidity. “You have any slack in your ropes?”

“Not much, but I think I can get to my knife.” After several minutes of wriggling and cursing, Dean hit the ground with a loud thud. A moment later, Sam was free as well. They both took a few minutes to let their circulation return to normal.

“So you think it’s gone, then?” Sam asked.

“Probably wouldn’t have left the free buffet otherwise,” Dean surmised grimly.

They considered in silence for some time.

“Well, that was weird,” Sam finally tried. Dean chuckled dryly.

“You do have a talent for the understatement, Sammy. I mean, Rumpelstiltskin?”

Sam winced. He had been wildly hoping that hadn’t been a shared hallucination. No such luck. “Yeah,” he said quietly.

Dean caught his tone. “We need to talk about this, Sammy?”

Sam sighed, “Yeah, probably. But let’s get out of here first, okay?”

“Now that sounds like a good plan.”

When they got back to their motel, Sam dove for his laptop, determined to prove he hadn’t lost his researching mojo—even if it was after the fact. If it also gave him a few minutes to think before he and Dean had that “talk,” well, that was a bonus.

“Aha!” he exclaimed after a few minutes of searching, “The Rumpelstiltskin story originated with tales of a type of goblin called a _Rumpelstilz._ It was known for banging around and making noises in houses. Sounds a lot like a poltergeist, which is how we got our wires crossed I guess.”

Dean laughed humorlessly at that.

“There’s no record of the _Rumpelstilz_ having hallucinatory powers, but if it always uses a similar scenario, then maybe that got separated from the original goblin and became the fairytale.”

“Great job, Sammy. Now maybe next time you can do the research before we get whammied by a fairytale goblin, huh?” There was no malice in the words, but also only the faintest trace of Dean’s usual teasing smirk.

“God, Dean, I’m sorry.” It was clear from his tone that Sam wasn’t really responding to his brother’s remark. “You knew, didn’t you? Knew what was going on?”

“Yeah, mostly. I mean—it was weird and I only remembered some stuff, but I knew it was a game.”

“A game?”

“Yeah. I had to get you to guess my name, but I couldn’t tell you, or even give you any hints. If I tried it was like my throat just closed up and nothing came out.” He paused, but Sam could tell that he wasn’t finished. He waited patiently for Dean to put the words together. “Didn’t figure you’d make it so hard, though,” he mumbled so Sam barely caught the words.

“What do you mean?”

Dean shrugged uncomfortably. “Figured you’d be jumping out of your skin to marry Jess. You’d guess right and we’d be out of there.”

Sam stared at his brother hard, realization dawning slowly. “So, you made Jess the queen?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

“But she was a bitch!”

A ghost of his customary smirk curved Dean’s lips. “Yeah.”

Sam was confused. Normally he was a lot quicker on the uptake when it came to deciphering his brother’s opaque emotional life. He figured he shouldn’t be too down on himself, though. He had spent most of the day thinking he was someone else—someone else who happened to be a fairytale character, no less. He took a moment to silently contemplate the facts he had been presented with. It didn’t take too long for them to assemble themselves into a reasonably clear shape.

Sam took the only viable course of action and jumped his brother’s bones. Dean made a surprised little squeak against his brother’s lips as he tumbled backwards onto the bed, Sam on top of him. The insistent swipe of Sam’s tongue against his lips put a quick end to any resistance. He parted his lips willingly and Sam took the opportunity to lick his way into Dean’s mouth, their breathing growing ragged as it mingled.

After a few minutes, Dean pulled his head back a fraction, breaking contact. His green eyes were dark and vulnerable. “Sam, what—?” he questioned, but Sam laid a gentle finger against his lips.

“Shhh,” he whispered tenderly, “I love you, dumbass.” He looked at Dean like he was the most important thing in the world, which, of course, he was.

Dean shook his head, still confused.

Sam sighed, affectionately exasperated. “Of course I’d rather be with you than an imaginary, bitchy Jessica. She’s gone, okay? And even if she weren’t, I’m not that guy anymore. I shouldn’t have ever tried to be that guy in the first place. I should have realized I already had the best thing in the world right here.”

Just like that six years of suppressed anxiety and self-hatred flowed out of Dean like water. Sam _saw_ it go and it was beautiful. Dean smiled. Not the mischievous smirk he used to cover up his feelings, a real smile. “Me too,” he said, and it spoke volumes. Then he tugged Sam’s head back down to seal their lips together again.

At first the pace was slow, the slide of lips and tongues hot and languid. Then Sam worked a thigh between Dean’s and things turned rougher and faster. Soon they were both hard and clothes were being shed haphazardly. When there was nothing between them but skin Sam started to lick his way down Dean’s chest, but Dean tugged him back up.

“Just want you inside me, Sammy,” he said.

The heat of the words and his brother’s intense gaze sizzled straight from Sam’s brain to his cock and he nodded jerkily, reaching for the lube on the nightstand. He worked Dean open steadily and methodically, repeatedly brushing a spot inside him that had him making high-pitched whining noises and arching off the bed.

Dean grabbed Sam’s wrist. “Now, Sam. Please.” His voice was breathy and strained and Sam was only too happy to comply. As he slid inside his brother, they sighed simultaneously. Sam only felt complete and whole like this when he was with Dean. It didn’t matter if they were fucking or driving or hunting or, hell, just doing laundry. They were two halves of one whole and always had been.

Sam started to move, slow at first and then faster as Dean started to lift his hips to meet his thrusts. Dean reached a hand in between them and Sam followed suit. Their fingers tangled as they both fisted Dean’s cock. It was only a few frantic moments before they were both coming, their cries muffled in each other’s mouths.

Sam collapsed against Dean’s chest for a few moments, breathing hard, before rolling to one side, pulling Dean with him. He wrapped his brother protectively in his long arms, resting his chin against the top of Dean’s head. “Not going anywhere with that spoiled brat queen, okay?” he said, his fierce tone a comical counterpoint to his words.

Dean laughed softly against Sam’s chest. “Okay, Sammy.” They were silent for a long time and Sam was starting to drift towards sleep when Dean spoke again. “Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Love you too, man.”

Sam felt a glow of contentment in his chest so powerful it was nearly painful. He tightened his arms possessively around Dean and let sleep take him.

_And they all lived happily ever after._


End file.
